


Turncoat

by Rhanon_Brodie (Glass_Jacket)



Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: I can't help it, M/M, but that's rather unsexy to write, colonial era slash, here's some trash for your dash, i did minimal research for this, i'm assuming it was whale oil, jamie is hella romantic in this, regardless, what did they use for lube in colonial times?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A long, long time ago, I started watch 'Turn' which is based in the colonial period of New England, probably before the French-Indian wars.  Then I started thinking of Jamie / Alex in this verse, and figured that Jamie would look rather smashing in a red coat, and that Alex was the perfect school master.  In an effort to write something before Christmas, I started this last week, got sick, but rallied and finished, giving it a nice little twist at the end.  It is open ended in case I ever want to pick this up in the future.  Not exactly Christmas themed, but it's seasonal, I suppose.  It's also terribly historically inaccurate and the history student in me is dying to rehash this with all the proper research, but I've not the time right now to do so.  I hope you'll forgive my glossing over of certain things.  I had fun writing this, and I hope you'll enjoy reading this.  I'm going to say this takes place in New England, in around the Waltham area of Massachusetts, in around 1760 or so.</p><p>For the most part, Jamie is referred to as 'James'; Alex calls him 'Jamie' when it counts ;)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Turncoat

**Author's Note:**

> A long, long time ago, I started watch 'Turn' which is based in the colonial period of New England, probably before the French-Indian wars. Then I started thinking of Jamie / Alex in this verse, and figured that Jamie would look rather smashing in a red coat, and that Alex was the perfect school master. In an effort to write something before Christmas, I started this last week, got sick, but rallied and finished, giving it a nice little twist at the end. It is open ended in case I ever want to pick this up in the future. Not exactly Christmas themed, but it's seasonal, I suppose. It's also terribly historically inaccurate and the history student in me is dying to rehash this with all the proper research, but I've not the time right now to do so. I hope you'll forgive my glossing over of certain things. I had fun writing this, and I hope you'll enjoy reading this. I'm going to say this takes place in New England, in around the Waltham area of Massachusetts, in around 1760 or so.
> 
> For the most part, Jamie is referred to as 'James'; Alex calls him 'Jamie' when it counts ;)

The way has been long, weeks on end, first by land to the coast of Ireland, and then a ship plodding through sluggish, black, frigid waters, only to bring him ashore in New England. He lands at a place lit with the sights and sounds of home and yet rough hewn, still spouting from rock and grass, with a quality that can only be described as charmingly primitive. There are gas lamps, but no real roads, and the weather is much the same as he left behind - cold and damp, made so by the Atlantic air. The streets are naught more than slush and mud, and the store fronts are cut from the trees he can still see the ghosts of in the setting sun, there, in the distant fields that were cleared for corn and cabbage and tobacco. 

James Robert Cook hastily fastens the buttons on the uniform red coat, freezing fingers fumbling in the fading light, and steps sluggish in the thickened blanket of wet snow that’s been falling since he disembarked _The Eden_ , and made his way into the port-side town in search of the one who came before him.

“Turner,” he utters lowly, eyeing the innkeeper in the first establishment he comes to.

For a moment, the rotund-and-red-faced man looks at the young officer like he’s not quite certain what he’s heard. Then, he raises a cautious eyebrow. “The school master?”

The title makes Cook smile a little, despite the bitter cold that has settled in his veins. He nods, and then adds, “Young man. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

“Large nose?” The innkeeper prompts.

“Aye,” Cook murmurs. “That’d be him. Where do I find him?”

“He has a small cottage about a mile off the main road, just north of town - he’s not in trouble, is he? There’s talk of spies, and-”

“No,” Cook cuts the overzealous man off. “No. He’s ...an old friend.” Clearing his throat, he hastily tacks on, “From Wessex.” He flexes his fingers and wants to move, to leave, to take the road the innkeeper has mapped out, and yet he’s stalling. All this time and he can’t seem to make his heart tell his feet to move to the door. “Might I...trouble you for whiskey?”

“Aye, of course, sir.” The man pours a measure into a glass and leaves it on the bar, and leaves the officer in what he thinks is peace.

Cook contemplates the glass. On the wood of the bar, the liquid darkens to a color which reminds him of those aforementioned dark eyes. Caught in the candle, they would spark and burn, the way Cook’s heart would in those long nights of darkness spent whispering and touching.

_“The lively diversions of youth, Jamie,” his father had scolded, “I had my dalliances, too, in officers’ quarters and baths and trenches. You are to marry Katherine next spring.”_

The young man could not, in good conscience, conscript the innocent daughter of Lord Downes to a life of loveless marriage, though his father insisted it was done countless times for the purpose of fortune. He did not care for gold, only for dark, burnished curls and a sharp wit. And so Cook had let himself be conscripted, despite his father’s purse and demands that he not be sent to the New World. Young Master Turner had gone half a year before him and settled, but the letters grew thin like Cook’s patience, and so he’d bargained himself a spot on _The Eden_ , a scummy ship made a measure better by the fact that it carried him closer to Turner every single second.

He’d have to report to Major Haywood in a week’s time if he were to keep a low profile, and secure lodgings in the officer’s barracks on the south eastern corner of the town, but his thoughts were on anything but being a soldier in that moment. Had he not been spied in the red coat by the other patrons of the inn, he might slip into his less-conspicuous wool coat, that of dark blue. No mind. Perhaps he’d do it tomorrow after spending the night-

_“Don’t - don’t go, James, stay with me? If only for tonight. It’s cold, and the moon is lonely.”_

Of course, he hadn’t; hadn’t once stayed the night, turning love more to scandal, despite his dutiful confessions in the shadowed cover of twilight.

But here, he knows no one. Has no ties, save to one man whom he could only hope would be happy to see him after so long.

The first whiskey emboldens him, and the second bolsters him, and warms his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the press of graceful hands and the heated words pouring from that dark-eyed soul.

Cook leaves his crowns on the counter and stands, gathering kit and tack and heading for the door.

“You’ll be needing your muffler once you reach the edge of town - out that way, it’s colder. The snow is deep, and Turner’s cottage is off the road.”

Cook throws a thankful smile over his shoulder at the innkeeper, and he nods. “Aye. My thanks.”

+

_Here I sit, at the closing of another year, writing you a letter that I will never send. When I have spilled my thoughts and ink, I will fold the parchment thrice, and hurl it to the fire, to burn and fade away, unlike my memories. Do you still think on me, James? Or has any thought or desire for me been doused by your marriage to Katherine?_

_I suppose it is my own fault, the thought that you and I would be more than what we had. Do not take my words to be trite: what we had was more than I’ve ever known before or since; no fairer face or more tender heart has willed me to move forward, though the universe has tried. I prove to be stubborn as ever, something I know you both adored and loathed._

_I love you, James. After these several months apart, after your joining with Katherine, after my journey over sea and land, I love you, endlessly, beyond breadth or breath, or reason._

_I love you._

_Always,_

_Alexander_

Shifting his hand to draw the flourish through his signature, the small desk at which Alexander Turner sat rocks, and the contents of his glass spill onto the page. 

_Waste of port_ , he adds to the page. _Though it is more like vinegar, and no amount of cloves or citrus can cure its bite. My heart suffers the same fate, and will not be mulled to any degree._

He pitches the quill to the desk with a mournful sigh, and curls his fingers beneath the edge of the page in preparation to crush it, and pitch it into its final resting place. Standing abruptly, he takes the sheaf with him and moves to the window that looks out onto the small square of garden that boasted little more than squash and beans this past summer. Now it is barren, like the rest of the land, something that is new to him, having been raised in a city his entire life. The snow is thick, and it is heavy, and there is a bitterness to the air that is not unlike his current mood. 

No amount of Yuletide celebrations can shine light on his darkened thoughts, but now, as he looks over the pristine white, turned bright and dark blue by the full moon overhead, he is reminded of James’ gaze on those nights when he was too haunted to return home. 

_“You’re leaving? You can’t leave, Alexander. What about-”_

_“What, James? What about ‘us’? What about you? What about your impending marriage to Katherine?”_

_“I love you, Alex.”_

_“Don’t you think I know?”_

The clouded glass is frost-bitten, and he touches the pane, ignoring the sting. He breathes against the surface and it makes a patch of fog through which he draws his finger in the shape of heart. 

He is halfway done his drawing when there is a thud on the front door. It startles him from his daydream, and he turns and stares at the door, jumping when there’s another series of pounding. It makes him forget the page in his hand and instead reach for the chain of his pocket watch, tugging it free and flipping it open. It is not far past seven, though it is dark. While he has a few acquaintances in town, he doubts any of them would make the trek out here to visit him. And even if they did, he can’t fathom any reason to visit in the first place. He mostly keeps to himself, though he knows the parents of his students well enough. 

Another thump on the door puts Alexander into action, and he cross the wooden floor of the small cottage in a few strides. With a bit of effort, he pulls the door open wide, and in a blast of cold, snowy air, he gasps, as he both freezes and burns at the same time. 

James Cook stands before him, knee deep in snow, shoulders of his red coat dusted with the stuff, cheeks flushed from the wind and no doubt the effort of high-stepping through drifts. His blond hair is pulled back into a damp queue, and that is jammed beneath the tricorne hat tilted low over his brow. 

One elegant finger extends, and tilts the hat upwards so that the blue of James’ eyes burns through Alex like the centre of a candle’s flame. “Stand aside, lad, and let me in?” James smiles softly. “It’s colder than hell out here.” 

\+ 

James is aware that Alex is still staring at him as he cuts into a slab of cold ham and shovels the morsel into his mouth. He washes it down with the mulled wine Alex wrote about only an hour before, and he grits past the shrivelling effect it has on his tongue, and merely asks for more when he drains his cup. 

Alex stands abruptly with a nod, and scurries to fetch it, like he’s afraid of James. When the dark-haired lad returns, his hand shakes as he upends the bottle, and he spills on the cuff of James’ white shirt. Alex curses, and sets the bottle hurriedly to one side as he becomes flustered. 

“Alex,” James murmurs gently, stilling the long-fingered hand as it fusses and fiddles with the cuff. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s _not_ ,” Alex insists, finally opening the button and tugging at the garment. “If I don’t get it now, it’ll soak in. I don’t take my shirts to Lorelei until two days hence. Stand up.” 

James eyes Alex for a moment before he obeys and slowly stands, and watches with bemusement as Alex approaches, pauses, retreats, and then begins anew. Before Alex’s hands can close over buttons, however, James catches them in his own and squeezes, staring down at the top of Alex’s dark head. 

“Look at me?” James implores softly, already fitting a hand under Alex’s sharp jaw to tilt his face up. When Alex’s eyes finally meet his, he takes a moment to recall their clarity and color, and then James notes the tremor in Alex’s bottom lip. “What is it?” 

“Sour port,” Alex laments, his eyes beginning to shine. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

A small sob escapes Alex and he bites his lip. “Are you a dream, James? Or a ghost?” 

James shakes his head, shushing Alex’s sorrowful words. He wants nothing more than to swiftly lean down and remove any other doubt from Alex’s mind with a kiss, but it’s been so long since the last one. 

What if Alex stopped loving him during all these months apart? The very idea of it makes James’ guts twist and he draws his hand away from Alex’s face and turns his back to the table, hoping for a moment to collect himself. 

He misses Alex’s look of disappointment at their loss of contact, and Alex’s fingers curl where they had clutched James’, and were now empty. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Alex’s question makes James’ heart seize with a twisted ache. “I’ve never given up on you. On _us_ ,” he whispers softly, gazing to the hearth in the small room. 

“You would leave your wife and travel four months at sea to be with a man you cannot love openly?” 

James whirls back to Alex at this, his mouth and eyes wide with surprise. “I never married her, Alex.” 

For his part, Alex blinks, and then makes a noise of disbelief. “What? Why-” 

“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of lying to her, or to myself,” James replies steadily, his eyes holding Alex’s gaze. “If I can’t have you, then I don’t want anyone else.” 

“This is madness,” Alex mutters, shaking his head. 

“Isn’t that love?” 

The very word brings Alex’s attention round once more, and he stares at James for what seems like eternity. 

“I love you, Alex. I would travel the seas a thousand times over, cross mountains, and deserts, swim rivers and rapids if it meant I could be with you.” 

Long lashes flutter against pale cheeks as Alex processes James’ confession. Putting a hand out to steady himself, he sways with the weight of the officer’s words. Before he can fall, however, James catches him with a gasp, and a worried expression. Alex’s eyes slip closed and James is left to marvel at the flawless skin and sculpted face, framed by thick, dark curls. 

“Alex?” he ventures. He is concerned at the younger man’s lack of response until those flawless lips, though bitten and weathered, begin to curl gently upwards. “Alex, you brat, you’re playing?” 

“Hardly,” Alex murmurs, opening his eyes to half mast to look up at James. “It’s the wine, really, and perhaps your admission. I’m feeling light headed.” 

“Have you eaten?” 

Alex twists in James’ grasp and tries to stand, but his struggle is useless against James’ hold. The soldier ferries the school master to the seat at the dinner table. “Tell me I’m not eating your dinner.” 

“It’s what I had on hand,” Alex begins lamely. “I...found myself lost in a book and by the time I got out the general store was closed.” 

James scoffs, and picks up the fork he’d been using. “Eat, Alex. You’re too thin. What would the lads back home say?” 

Taking a breath, gently sang in that teasing tone of youth, “ _Turner, Turner, thin and frail, nowt for him but a weathered main sail._ ” 

“God, you still remember that?” James laughs and sits opposite Alex and points at the plate. 

Alex takes a small bite despite his embarrassment and shrugs. “How could I forget? You wrote it, after all.” 

“We were eight.” 

“And you more a poet then, than perhaps I am now.” 

“Hardly,” James replies smoothly. “Now eat. Stop trying to change the subject. No food, you say? We’ll go into Boston on the morrow.” 

Alex swallows another mouthful and dabs at his mouth. “On a soldier’s pay?” 

James coughs, and flushes as he smoothes a hand down over his hair, curling the tail of his queue around his fingers. “My father wasn’t exactly ecstatic that I decided to come to the New World, but he wasn’t about to let me go with pockets turned out. I have holdings. I’ll need to visit the bank and meet with Mr. Teirney, but I’ve enough for now. I think I can put a goose on this table, and color in your cheeks.” 

“Hardly need a goose to put color in my cheeks,” Alex demures, lowing his gaze to the plate even as he smiles mischievously. 

“It’ll keep your strength up,” James fires back, drawing a finger over the back of Alex’s hand before curling it into his grasp. 

“A fatted goose tomorrow, then. And for tonight? I’ve but a little wine left, and perhaps a bit of chocolate.” 

James leans back and nods, raising his arms over his head and stretching. Alex’s gaze wanders back to James, and the latter grins, and puffs his chest out. 

Alex’s face drops then, and he leans close, taking a delicate sniff with his nose. “But first, a bath.” 

James scoffs. “Bollocks.” 

“You’ll not share my bed with dirt on your neck,” Alex huffs, pressing his fingertips to the grime above James’ collar. Pulling them back he rubs them, and feels the greasy grit of travelled skin between them. 

“You wish for me to share your bed?” James ventures, elbows plunking to the table top as he raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Unless you care to sleep here before the fire?” Alex stands and carries his dishes to the counter built into the wall beneath the window. He glances back at James through his lashes. “I daresay I’ll keep you warmer.” 

\+ 

Alex draws his gaze down James’ throat, watching as more and more skin is exposed as the officer undresses. The firelight catches the weeks’ worth of whiskers sprouting on James’ chin and jaw. More skin comes into view, smattered with dark blond hair, and more scars than Alex remembers. Thin, silvery rivers of broken flesh bisect and bloom from a point near one of James’ collarbones; an angry, reddened thing of raised skin, puckered and crooked, appears when James pulls his shirt from his trousers and turns his torso to the firelight. That scar is on his hip; there is a matching one on his back, giving Alex the impression that he’s seen the end of a bayonet, or perhaps a spear. 

“Did it hurt?” Alex hears himself murmur, before he looks to busy himself with the small cauldron over the flames in the hearth. He stoops to tip the pot into a basin and mix hot water with snow collected from the overhang outside the door to concoct a reasonable temperature for bathing. 

“Like getting skewered with the Devil’s pitchfork,” James replies, unflinching. “It was a skirmish upland, privateers waiting to steal cargo, and the like.” 

“And this one?” Alex ventures, pressing his finger to a thin line curving under James’ pectoral. He traces the path and notes the way James’ skin raises with goose flesh, the way that dusky pink peak of a nipple pulls taut as if waiting. Alex bites his tongue and waits for James’ reply. 

“You tell me,” James murmurs. “That’s where you cut my heart out, took it, and ran.” 

Alex blushes, and James catches his hand and holds it against his heartbeat. The dark-eyed man watches his fingers curl against the hair on James’ chest, digits twitching and flexing, as a shiver runs through them both. 

“You’re trembling,” James softly observes, somehow stepping closer to Alex, his thigh brushing against that of the slighter man. 

“M’not,” Alex mumbles hastily, shaking his head. 

“Yes, you are,” James whispers back. His free hand takes Alex’s chin between thumb and forefinger and he quickly tilts his head back and presses a soft kiss full of promise onto yielding lips. It lasts seconds, and then Alex is pulling away, gasping, the fingernails now pressing half-moons into James’ chest, perhaps just as permanent as all the other scars. 

“Jamie,” he rasps, the nickname rolling off his tongue with greater ease than ‘James’ ever has. 

James hums and steals another kiss, dragging his lips to the corner of Alex’s mouth with a flicker of his tongue, his broad hands fastening onto Alex’s lean hips and pulling him flush against him. Finding the grooves of those hips with his thumbs, James flexes his grip, making Alex yelp, and open his mouth under James’. 

Seconds later and Alex is breaking away once more, mouth reddened and wet, his eyes wide as he gapes up at James. 

“I’ll not apologize for my exuberance,” James growls with a smile. 

Alex gulps, and nods. “I’ll not beg you to stop.” 

\+ 

“Say it again.” 

Alex stirs at the whisper in his ear, and then smiles as strong, thickly muscled arms tighten around his middle and pull him into safe, loving warmth. 

“Hmmm...what’s that then,” Alex replies playfully. 

Behind him James growls, and buries his face into the nape of Alex’s neck, mouthing the soft curls aside so that his lips can glance off of the soft skin. “You know what,” James rasps. 

“ _Jamie_ ,” Alex says pointedly, enunciating every vowel and soft consonant of the pet name. 

The man in question sighs happily. “Again.” 

Alex murmurs a twitter of delight. “ _Jamie_ ,” he repeats, his breath catching as strong hands fit over his bare hip bones, pulling him back even further, before circling back to palm the firm, warm flesh of his arse. His top leg moves up, torso twists, as James leans up on one hand, the other still tracing circles over delicate skin that he has mapped countless times already. 

A rough sigh leaves James, and he cards his fingers into Alex’s hair, tightening his fist and pulling the younger lad’s neck taut, making him warble and relax into James’ touch. “I don’t ever want to be so long from your side,” James declares, his tongue feathering the edge of Alex’s ear. 

Alex stiffens at the brush to his skin, and he shivers and reaches back, curving his arm so that he can splay his palm over James’ thigh, now moving to push his own apart. 

“Or ever long from your heat...you scent, your taste...God as my witness, I missed you so that I were pained.” James’ words are mingled with more presses of lips to skin and hair, his teeth tugging at the soft lobe of Alex’s ear, pulling until he hears a whine that hits him square in the gut with a pleasant, fluttery thud. He grunts thickly, and gruffly adds, “I ache for you, Alex. Even now, after long hours making love, I feel it in every fiber of my being.” 

Alex can only moan, and nod in agreement. This is what has been missing from his life; not for a lack of trying, he has been chasing poetry that wasn’t there to begin with. James is his epic poem, every word a stanza, iambic pentameter in his hips, and rhyming with each word that ever meant ‘love’. 

It is a fumble of limbs, curling and coiling as they move on the narrow bed, beneath heavy down and fur, until Alex is half on his front, one knee pulled up to his chest, his head turned to watch as James kneels up behind him, the firelight from the small hearth in the corner lighting every fine hair on his body so that he is haloed in molten gold. His hair curls on his brow, and against his cheek, and his cheeks are reddened more now with lust than anything else. Hooded eyes, dark as the bay at dawn, stare Alex down and make him feel all at once caught, and wildy free. 

Once more, Alex murmurs, “Jamie,” and his dark lashes sweep over his cheekbones as he closes his eyes, takes a breath, a moment, to still his wildly beating heart. James’ hands flex and glide up slender, pale legs, palming them, and then hips, twisting so that the younger lad is now on his back, knees spread. Licking his lips, Alex lets his mouth fall open, his eyes opening with a sliver of burning amber, and he pants hotly as he moves his hand between his thighs to circle his hardening length. For all the waistcoats and velvet cravats and brocade Alex displays during the day, it is the nights, stripped of everything but his lust, that James loves best. He is a perfect ruse, perverse beneath the prudent veneer, and he is bold as his eyes widen a fraction when he sees that James is just as ready. 

“I need you,” Alex gasps, his fingers slipping through his own arousal. “Now, Jamie, please,” he begs, voice shuddering with need, thighs trembling. 

James nods and, not taking his eyes from Alex, reaches to the bedside and takes up the small vial of oil, scented with bergamot, meant for bathing. Well, it had gotten its intended use, for certain, and then some. James spills the viscous liquid over his fingertips, knowing he won’t need much - their previous call to arms has left them both warm and permeated with the stuff, making for smooth, supple skin, and welcoming muscles. Still, he takes hold of his length and strokes a good measure, watching Alex watching him, before he reaches for Alex, and garners the same treatment. Just like every other time, Alex comes to life with any touch from James, and his hips push up to meet James’ hand, his eyes slowly closing as he lets out a breath and clutches the sheets beneath him with his fists. 

“My beautiful boy,” James whispers as he leans down, laying his turgid length beside Alex’s, grinding down against him as Alex’s arms loop around his shoulders. Fusing their mouths together, James lifts Alex’s lower half and searches with gentle fingers until he’s breached the boy once more, finding him more than warm, and definitely welcoming. Alex yelps, and his whimper is lost down James’ throat, his thighs slackening and widening to accommodate James’ bigger frame. 

“Now,” Alex gasps as he breaks their kiss, his tongue sweeping along James’ bottom lip as he does so. “Don’t make me ask again, Jamie.” One hand digs into James’ hair, and the other palms the firm globe of James’ arse, and Alex tugs, and grunts, and makes his desires known. 

There is a fleeting moment of caught breath and fragile silence, broken with whispered words of encouragement, and adoration. Then James is clasped tightly, lovingly, by the school master’s body, and he goes head over heels, tumbling down into the boy beneath him. “Alex,” he praises, closing his eyes with a moan. A sudden wash of heat and desire flares in James’ veins, and on his skin, and Alex matches it, both body and tempo. 

Beneath James Alex surges like the swell of the Atlantic, and James finds solace in the ebb and flow of narrow hips. Alex concentrates on the notion that he is no longer empty after so long, physically and otherwise. He succumbs to the demands of James’ body, and of his, and gives little care or thought to anything beyond. 

\+ 

_The Antelope_ dropped anchor a mile from shore, and the crew set its boats down laden with the 21st Regiment out of Lancashire. A young ranking officer by name of O’Malley had spotted the hull of _The Eden_ through the spyglass, the name emblazoned in the waning moonlight. Word had spread down from the crowsnest to the commanding officers, all the way to the captain’s quarters where the masterful Captain Kane was berthed. He hadn’t slept since they began edging their way south from the tip of Nova Scotia three days past, and now nearing Boston, his senses were heightened. Upon word that The Eden had been identified, he’d dressed hurriedly, jamming his tricorne onto his head, cravat be damned, and holstered both pistol and sabre. He’d taken the first spyglass offered to him and confirmed that the hulking shadow was indeed the ship he’d been looking for. He made ready to man the first boat to shore. 

_The Eden_ had made port after battle with a smaller sloop, _The Gull_ , under British command. The former had been a ship made of privateers, deserters of crown and country, loyal now to the Americas, something that made the bile rise in Captain Kane’s throat. Stood in the bow of the small boat making its way to shore, Kane’s keen, hazel eyes scoured the frostbitten land. The cloudless night was his ally, and movement on shore would be easily detected. He doubted there would be anyone nearby at any rate; _The Gull_ had been stripped and abandoned five days past. An unusual amount of sea ice had made the way sluggish for Kane and his pursuit, and more than half a dozen men had succumbed to frozen toes and ears. It was Kane’s persistence that kept him warm, and the thought of treason that boiled his blood. 

On shore, lanterns were lit, and Kane and his regiment moved in silence, scouring the ground, looking for a trail that would lead them to the crew of _The Eden_. There were several footprints, and the mud and snow was churned here, which told Kane that haste was made in disembarking. Trails went inland, to the west, and south, towards the township of Waltham. If they made it to Boston, the traitors would surely be lost. He had to move quickly. 

“Give me a perimeter,” Kane muttered to the man beside him, before he pressed forward up the gangplank and into the belly of the ship. 

Drawing his sword, he moved cautiously, signalling that a torch bearer follow him and shed light on the situation. The ship had indeed been abandoned quickly; stores had been broken and rationed, and crates marked ‘Property of Britain’ had been cracked open, strewn about, their contents no doubt divided among those that had survived the skirmish. There were bodies, too, but too clean-shaven and fresh-faced to be that of privateers. Kane grimaced sourly as he recognized the crooked nose of one young face, and he knelt to confirm the identity. 

“A terrible fate, Matthew,” Kane muttered, using his hand to close the eyes and rid himself of the heavy, blue and onyx gaze. “The traitors will suffer for this. They will know the price to paid for disloyalty.” He frowned, noting that the young officer’s red coat was missing, as was his haversack, his musket and bayonet. Kane lifted the tricorne and passed it to the lad carrying the torch. “See this back safely to _The Antelope_ , to my quarters.” 

Kane continued his catalogue of the ship. It wasn’t long before he was approached, this time with the ship’s log from _The Gull_. Kane readily accepted it and turned a crate over, calling for torch light as he opened the large, leatherbound tome, and drew a slender finger down the ledger. The crew of _The Gull_ was listed, along with a small list of passengers, and the contents of their cargo. The young captain organized a party to identify the remaining bodies. One by one the names were checked off, until one remained unaccounted for. 

“One missing body. And one missing red coat,” Kane murmured, glancing back towards the way to Waltham. “Where are you hiding, James Robert Cook?” He pursed his lips into a thin line and smiled slowly. “And more importantly, _why_ are you hiding?” 

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering about DTI / Kodachrome - I'll pick up both of these in the New Year. Be safe this season, and enjoy the holiday if you celebrate. Stay hydrated.


End file.
